


one song worth a thousand words

by rosesunlight



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Spencer Reid, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Maeve dies, Mute Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, not much comfort tbh, that sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesunlight/pseuds/rosesunlight
Summary: Spencer doesn't deal well with the death of Maeve. It triggers his selective mutism, and he is left alone, incapable of forming the right words to explain his grief. Hotch helps.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner/Haley Hotchner, Maeve Donovan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	one song worth a thousand words

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to the Into the Minds of Criminals discord for getting me out of my slump and making me create something.  
> Big love  
> Hope you all enjoy this!  
> Andy x

Spencer Reid has seen horrors most people couldn’t even place in their nightmares. He’s seen women, men, even children, dead, more times than he could count. He knew when there was a body nearby just because of how a room felt when he entered it. Spencer knew death so well he could shake its hand without fear. It was almost like they had entered a deal without Spencer knowing: death could strike all around him, it could try to get him, but in the end, Spencer would be the only one left to watch as everything around him crumbled.

He just didn’t think she would be next.

Maeve. The girl behind the phone, the one he had been utterly devoted to for 10 months of his life. Reid could see bodies that had been scarred and brutalised, but hers was one too many. He had nothing to say in his grief.

Spencer had always known he was autistic. Bright lights and certain smells were overpowering, the rough scratches of sweatshirts made him want to curl inwards on himself. He was 8 when his beloved cat Binty died; he didn’t speak for months on end. His mother took him to the doctor, and that was when he was first diagnosed.

He went in and out of phases of being mute, but he never really took the time to communicate. He knew sign language, but no one else seemed to understand him. He got more frustrated, he felt small and weak again, flapping his hands angrily while his dad ordered him to look someone in the eyes when having a conversation. 

When Maeve died, when his loud sobs turned soft and quiet, everything was louder. He didn’t have anything to say, so he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything. When he finally pulled himself to work, Garcia tried to make timid conversation, but soon gave up when Spencer would only nod back to her. The team looked at him like he was an alien when he had no thoughts on the case they were currently trying to solve and gave him raised eyebrows when he handed them his notes and theories instead of just blurting it out.

Hotch noticed. Not in the way everyone else did, the way that made him feel inferior for wanting to keep quiet and still, but in the way that he kept him involved, made sure questions that could be answered with a nod were directed towards him, and waited patiently at the end of briefings so Spencer could hand in all his thoughts. Hotch treated him the same, no differently than before, just with extra accommodation.

Spencer was tired of feeling as if he was being bribed to talk. Garcia, although she thought she was helping, was always trying to get him to respond to her, and every time he refused to, not only did it make her feel sad, it made Spencer feel worse for being incapable of producing a sound.

Hotch invited him round his house one day, talking enough for the two of them, which he was sure was hard. He didn’t seem phased though, brushing by the house until they reached the fridge. He looked as if he were going to pull out beers, and Spencer would have to try and explain that he didn’t like the taste without speaking, but instead, he pulled out a filtered jug of cool water and poured Spencer a large glass. Now that he thought more, he couldn’t remember the last time he had drank water. He didn’t want to remember just in case that train of thought led back to Maeve, like most things did.

“Drink. You normally have a bottle on you at all times in that satchel of yours, but you’re not drinking. When was the last time you ate something healthy?” Hotch asked, with an air of seriousness.

Spencer shrugged. He couldn’t remember. Recently, he had taken to just eating energy bars and sugary caffeinated drinks to keep him alive enough to function.

Hotch sighed before regaining his stature “That’s changing tonight. Come on, I’ll teach you how to make Lasagne”. He started getting out pots and trays as well as ingredients; Spencer didn’t have the will nor the energy to stop him. “Jack will be home soon. He loves lasagne, but Haley always used to make it better. She left a recipe around here somewhere…” Spencer pretends he doesn’t hear the crack in Hotch’s voice as he searches for the recipe. He pulls out a small piece of paper, weathered by time, and examines it.

Spencer watches Hotch work over the dinner, looking so different to his work persona. This was dad Hotch, Aaron, the one who has to do the dishes and clean the clothes, the one who tells his son bedtime stories and answers the tough questions like why won’t mommy wake up. Spencer watches him closely, before Hotch stills and pauses over the food.

“You know, after Haley died, Jack just stopped talking.” Spencer’s breath hitched, “It was a few days after, when he saw me planning the funeral with some relatives. His Nana was crying. I think he finally understood why people around him were sad, so he just stopped talking. I thought I was loosing my boy.”  
He looks over his shoulder before turning back, layering the strips of pasta over themselves. Spencer wrung his hands out nervously, wondering if this is when Hotch orders him to speak, or screams at him for acting like a child.

“But, I found him at our Piano one day. It’s old, I hadn’t played in years. He started tapping on the notes, and I just knew. I knew he wanted to play. So I taught him, and soon enough, he was pretty good. He could play baa-baa-black sheep like a professional. Soon enough, he started to feel more confident in himself, and, well, after a bit of therapy…he’s back.”

Spencer looked down at his hands, picking at a piece of skin he found to be annoying.

Hotch put a timer on top of the kitchen counter so the sound of ticking filled the room. “Come on, let me show you.”

Hotch led him to the living room, where the grand piano sat in all its glory. Spencer ran a hand along it, savouring the feeling of polished wood along his fingertips, how cool and smooth it felt. Hotch tucked out the little chair for Spencer to sit at, who contentedly obliged.

Hotch sat to the side of him, giving a soft smile as Spencer looked back for some kind of guidance.  
“I know you used to play, Spencer. Just give it a go, something that’s yours. It doesn’t have to be anything special, it doesn’t even have to be good or in tune. Just try and create something rather than destroying yourself.”

Spencer started to play. It was sad and morose, slow and sorrowful, but somehow, it was his, and it was therapeutic. There were no right or wrongs in the way he could play, even though he hadn’t played in some time; ever since his dad left him and his mum.

Hotch listened until the music had stopped. He waited patiently as Spencer collected himself, trying to seem more put together in the presence of his boss.

“Spencer…” Hotch started “It’s alright to cry.”

And Spencer did.

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to leave kudos and comments, I really do appreciate them!


End file.
